


Scars of Your Love

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Lots of scars, M/M, Mentions of 3.06 corrective rape, but basically a fic about Mickey's scars, but not pro-Ian, mostly Mickey/Closure, no self harm, not anti-Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9319430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: Whether directly or indirectly, you now have nearly as many Ian-related scars as Terry-related scars.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened. Apparently I'm writing again.

You used to count the scars every night. From the night the tattoo on your chest became nothing but a misspelt and fucking laughed-at infection, you counted every scar littering your body that was caused by Ian Gallagher.

Technically caused by Ian. Whatever. If Ian was involved, then Ian was in some way at fault. That’s what you told yourself every night while you were locked up, what you told yourself every night - the few there were - you had with him after, and what you’ve told yourself every night since. Whether directly or indirectly, didn’t matter, these scars are there because of Ian, and now you have nearly as many Ian-related scars as Terry-related scars.

Which is fucked up, you know that. Fucked up that you were so fucking used and abused by this guy but still spent every night thinking about him. Fucked up that he’s the only person you wanted to see once you got out. Fucked up that you asked him - yes, _asked,_ despite how badly you’d wanted to beg and plead - to come with you knowing full well more scars would occur along the way.

And more scars did.

You’re not blind to the fact that he has his own fair share of scars caused by you - you can remember multiple fucking occasions that would have resulted in a scar on that perfect fucking body of his - but you don’t think he’s ever spent his nights counting and reliving each one over and over again.

The very first one is hard to forget. You don’t suppose anyone - Southside or not - forgets their first bullet wound, and you’d laugh at how fucking dramatic it was if the scar didn’t still ache like a bitch on cold nights. You lost countless hours of sleep while inside because of it, cursing Gallagher the whole time. You always knew fucking Gallagher would get you into trouble, but you’d never expected to get shot.

Shit. Twice.

At least the tiny scars on your ass don’t fucking hurt, and you’re surprised at the good job that perverted old prick did of fixing you up after that; the scars are barely visible.

There’s a tiny, almost nonexistent scar on your right knee that you relate back to Ian. It’s just one of many that came from fucking - this one while you were on your hands and knees in an abandoned building while he pounded into you from behind. The sharp pain in your knee had been nothing compared to the pleasure-pain of Ian in your ass, until you’d both finished and you’d found a fucking nail buried into your skin.

You suppose you’re lucky it never got infected or turned into tetanus. That’s not something you could easily explain away.

But there’s also one deep scratch mark on your back that never healed up properly from the first time Ian let you fuck him, a small scar just on your hairline from some rough foreplay in the Gallagher kitchen, and a slight redness that never went away on your left ass cheek from when he fucked you hard on a concrete bench and your ass was rubbed raw.

You don’t like to think about the other scars that sex with Ian caused; the one on your temple from your old man’s gun, the nick above your left eyebrow from your old man’s fist, the marks on your knuckles from beating the crap out of Ian after all that shit went down.

The figurative scars inside your chest and all over your dick from being made, forced, shamed into fucking Svetlana. The sweat that covered you, the feel of Ian’s eyes on you, the way her hands touched you, all burned at your skin, searing and scaring and never fucking leaving.

You don’t expect those scars to ever fade.

There’s a scar on your right calf from when you and Ian started flicking each other with dish rags while you were supposed to be drying the dishes. One from where a tickle fight - a fucking _tickle_ fight, Jesus _fucking_ Christ - had resulted in Ian’s tooth on your forehead. Another from when Mandy wanted to toast marshmallows and Ian’s, flaming and burnt, went flying off his stick and onto your forearm.

Not all of the scars are bad. You don’t like to think about the good ones anymore, and hate how much time you spent recalling them while locked up, hate how much you put into those memories.

There’s more. More good, more bad, but you’re starting to forget. Every time you count, which is no longer every night, your final result is one or two less than the previous count and you can never figure out where the missing ones are. Sometimes you don’t know if that makes you happy or sad.

The open wound, though, that’s still there.

It’s like a gaping fucking hole right in your chest, right where your fucking heart should be, and, sure, that’s fucking dramatic, too, but it’s how it fucking feels. It feels like Ian Gallagher reached into your chest and ripped your heart out, time and time again.

You don’t count them, though. Simply remembering the times he hurt you that badly hurts more than any wound-turned-scar on your whole fucking body.

But you remember. You remember when he dumped you outside his house after you spent weeks - fucking _months_ \- doing anything and everything he wanted. How you just weren’t enough. You weren’t enough for him. Just like you’d always suspected.

You remember when he came to see you inside, when he laughed at your tattoo, lied to your fucking face about waiting for you. Pushed through that glass to shatter everything inside you. You had really, truly, stupidly thought that maybe he just needed a little time, a little space without you to realise how fucking good you had been to him. You were so fucking wrong.

And you remember at the Mexico border. You remember everything about it, but you don’t think about it. That part of the wound still hurts too fucking much to recollect.

But it’s starting to hurt a little less and the scars are becoming fewer and fewer each count. You don’t know if it’s time or closure. Maybe both. Mostly you put it down to the sun, the sand, the surf. You don’t surf, but fuck. Every goddamn ounce of tension and anger and hurt leaves your body when you sit and watch those waves for long enough.

And on a particularly hot day, when you can bury your toes down deep to the damp sand beneath, when the hot sun is probably making your nose red again, when the Corona in your hand is dripping condensation over your fingers …

On days like those, you don’t even remember who the fuck Ian Gallagher is.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Be as critical as you please. I'm working my way back into this.
> 
> mickeyismyconstant.tumblr.com


End file.
